


Psi

by Daydreamer_Daydreaming



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Butterflies, Death, F/M, Loads of death, Supernatural Elements, Supernatural Illnesses, This is nothing like I've ever written before
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-26 07:22:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13230801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daydreamer_Daydreaming/pseuds/Daydreamer_Daydreaming
Summary: Boy likes girl. Girl has no idea boy exists. Girl has disease. Boy catches it. Disease is deadly and kills them both and and brings them back...different.Jughead found himself intensely watching her as she stared down at her unopened text book. Her body was hunched over. At first he figured she was upset about something. But then she started coughing. Initially, she had managed to stifle them quietly with her cupped hands. Though as the class progressed, Betty’s coughing got worse until she was choking and spluttering. Betty tried to hide it, but there was blood covering her hands. She desperately tried to wipe them on her dress. But that just left bloody smears tainting the white.





	Psi

**Author's Note:**

> i sneezed writing this and panicked lmao. Happy New Year!

Psi

 

_Prologue._

  
The average human being is supposed to sneeze four times a day. According to Google at least. Obviously test results weren’t always completely scientifically accurate, but that was the most recent estimate. Jughead Jones however, had managed to bypass that statistic by a mile. He wasn’t the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last. But it was rather the circumstances surrounding him that made his case a lot more interesting. Though it wasn’t anything to be proud of. He had sneezed nearly eighteen times in a row in the space of a few minutes and after desperately trying to stifle spluttered cough attacks attacking his chest, he was pretty sure that he was dying.  
  
Eighteen sneezes wasn’t too serious. In fact, there was a Guinness world record achievement for eighty two sneezes, held by eighteen year old Lana Seldom from Germany. Forced of course. Though the thing was, Jughead wasn’t just sneezing. His body was was on fire. His limbs were numb. Every sneeze felt like he was about to project his lungs from his bloody lips. Bloody because every sneeze was agonizing, forcefully twisting his mouth to suit each violent sternutation. Whatever the hell was happening to him, it wasn’t your average flu bug or a cold. It wasn’t normal. And for the first time in his life, Jughead wondered if he was really dying. If this was it. The light at the end of the tunnel. Jughead didn’t know what dying felt like. He was sixteen years old. He didn’t even have a license. But he was pretty damn sure that normal people weren’t supposed to sneeze themselves to death. Because that would be fucking hilarious. It would be the bizarre plot of an Adam Sandler movie that got shoved on Netflix, or his ten year old self’s feverish nightmares. Because that wasn’t how you were supposed to die. It was either a heart attack, or a brain hemorrhage. You die for a reason, and Jughead had felt mostly fine this morning.

He might say that he felt like death, sometimes. But now he actually _did._ He wondered if this was the universe's way of sending him a huge _fuck you._ Because he said it ironically as a joke. Everyone did. _“Urgh, kill me now”_ was just a stupid phrase! It was his way of yelling at the dumb world for being so hypocritical and materialistic. Because he was a teenager, and teenagers complained. He didn’t mean he actually _wanted_ to die!  
  
The point was, Jughead was sure this wasn’t how it was supposed to end. With him stumbling down some dead-end street on the North Side. his head down, strands of his dark hair grossly plastered to his sweaty forehead as he released a rather violent nineteenth sneeze into shaking hands that were already pressed against his mouth and nose, trying to suppress the urge to vomit up his insides. The cough came next. Spluttered from his mouth. He was pretty sure blood followed. From the perspective of any passerby, Jughead looked like he was on death’s door. His normally golden skin was ghostly white and pallid which looked almost see-through. You couldn’t see his eyes because his head was bent down, most of his face shielded by ebony dark hair nestled underneath a grey knitted beanie. Jughead’s arms were wrapped around his chest. He looked like he was comforting himself, but really, Jughead was terrified that he was actually going to bring up his lungs. His chest rattled with every sneeze, and when he peered, wide-eyed at the palms of his hands, they were streaked a morbid red. It almost felt like he was five years old again, dunking his hands into huge pots of paint that his father was using to decorate his room. The color had been a deep, dark Scarlet red. Which was the exact shade that decorated his skin, smearing his fingernails right now. When he was little he had giggled at his hands, waving them around excitedly and pressing them against  his own blank canvas; his bedroom wall. Now, however, the color sent shivers rocketing down his spine. There was nothing to laugh or giggle at. This wasn’t paint, it was blood. His own blood pouring out of him. Which wasn’t normal for a sixteen year old boy. He was healthy. He ate his fair share of vegetables alongside his shameless obsession with burgers.

So why was he suddenly dying? It didn’t make any sense! Though he knew he was in a sort-of denial. The truth was Jughead had been expecting it. He wasn’t the first one with these symptoms. He had already seen them today. Though a piece of him had thought it was just her, ignoring the warning signs. _She just has some kind of foreign flu,_ he had managed to convince himself.

Jughead’s first instinct was to call his father. He slipped trembling hands into his pockets and grasped for his phone. Panic struck his chest when he felt something _warm_ trickle from his nostril, and it reminded him of this afternoon in class. When everything had been reasonably normal. For him at least. Jughead had been sitting a few seats behind a blonde girl in AP English. Elizabeth Cooper. The head of the school council and in his opinion, the prettiest girl in Sophomore year. She had short blonde curly hair that was usually topped with a flower crown. One for each day. That day, Betty had been wearing one weaved with bright red roses. It suited her perfectly. Though that afternoon in particular, the flower-crown had looked out of place on Betty Cooper.

It was childish innocence that she had withheld. Which was placed on the head of a dying girl.  

Normally, Jughead liked to simply observe her. The crinkle of her nose as she stared up at the board where the teacher scrawled notes. Her iris were a shade of Blue that Jughead had never known existed. It was like staring into a perfect crystalline sky when catching her eye.  Another thing about Betty was that she could pull any outfit off. He remembered his gaze finding her the second she walked into AP English wearing a short white dress and a pastel pink cardigan over the top. Though he couldn’t help notice the cuffs of her sleeves were spotted the same scarlet that now drenched his own hands, smeared under his nose. Elizabeth Cooper had been dying too. He just hadn’t known it yet. Jughead had wondered why she looked so deathly pale. Like a ghost had just entered the classroom. There were big telltale signs. Like the limp in her step, the fact she couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Though Jughead hadn’t really paid attention to much that afternoon. It was, to him, just another mundane day at Riverdale High. He didn’t notice that the seat next to him where Veronica Lodge sat, was vacant. Even when the girl had a sparkling attendance record. Even Archie Andrews, a boy from his past who had forgotten he had existed, was nowhere to be seen.

At the time he hadn’t really questioned it. The fact that most of his class was absent. Empty chairs dotted around him, but he failed to realize. Instead, all he saw was Betty Cooper. Like he did every other class. He watched Betty like normal, but there had been something _odd_ about her. For one, he couldn’t even see her expression because her head was bowed, her blonde curls unbrushed and straggly. She resembled a rather scruffy angel. Her flower crown had been clumsily dumped on top of her head, and was dangerously close to falling off. Unlike other days when he had been sure the girl had spent precious minutes in front of the mirror meticulously placing it perfectly over her curls. The blood on her cardigan had worried him. Had she caught herself on something sharp? Or was it much more personal? Betty Cooper was always smiling, always perfect. He couldn’t imagine her doing something so... _self destructive._ Jughead found himself intensely watching her as she stared down at her unopened text book. Her body was hunched over. At first he figured she was upset about something. But then she started coughing. Initially, she had managed to stifle them quietly with her cupped hands. Though as the class progressed, Betty’s coughing got worse until she was choking and spluttering. Betty tried to hide it, but there was blood covering her hands. She desperately tried to wipe them on her dress. But that just left bloody smears tainting the white.

“Miss Cooper,” Mr Carlson who had his back turned to the class, cleared his own throat. “I suggest you pay a visit to the nurses office at once. We can’t have you spreading whatever you have to other students.” His voice had trembled slightly. Especially when he eventually twisted around and faced Betty, who was staring at the palms of her hands in shock. Jughead had wanted to help the girl, but at the same time, he was scared of catching whatever the hell she had. There weren’t that many students in the class and the ones that _were_ there stayed quiet and prayed the sick girl left.

Betty’s labored breaths had caused Jughead’s insides to twist into knots. At first, she must have been in shock. But soon enough the fog started to clear, and Betty Cooper realized something was in fact _very_ wrong with her.  “Excuse me!” Betty eventually flew from her seat, grabbing her bag and staggering out of the classroom. Jughead could hear her coughing all the way down the hall. It was like a chain-smoker cough. Rattling around in her chest, threatening to bring up her organs.  

And now he had it. Which was obvious, really. The virus, or whatever the hell Betty Cooper had been infected with was probably airborne. Jughead wondered if she was dead. If she had succumbed to it. The sky was an eerie gray color, the perfect color to match his mood. His state. He hissed in frustration, still bent over his phone as his thumb, slick with blood, slipped on the glass of his phone screen. He managed to tap his father’s number. He held the phone to ear with shuddering hands. Jughead bit his lip through the first three rings. He knew his dad was at home. FP Jones had lost his job two weeks ago, after consistently turning up to work, still drunk from the night before. Jughead usually awoke to him his head bent over the toilet. Somehow he could still grasp a beer can while projecting his guts into the toilet bowl. Jughead stifled a cough, slamming one hand over his mouth. If he was going to die. He didn’t care. He still wanted his dad.

“Jug?” Jughead winced at his father’s slurred voice. Though he wasn’t exactly surprised. It sounded like he had just woken up. Jughead imagined his father still lying on the floor, mumbling into his phone’s receiver. Jughead took a deep breath. But that hurt. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, and tears sprang to his eyes. “Dad?” He whispered. He felt blood dribble down his chin the second he spoke.  “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Jughead choked on a sob. He’d never properly cried to his father in so long. Instead he had kept it all bottled up. The virus brought it all out.  “Fuck,” He whimpered. “Dad,  I’m scared.”

Jughead heard his father’s sharp intake of breath, and relief flooded through him. There was the sound of shuffled movement, before FP Jones loudly cleared his throat. “Son, what is it?” The man sighed. “You feeling sniffly? We’ve got some painkillers at home. Dunno how strong they are though.”

 _Sniffly._ Jughead wanted to laugh. “It’s a little bit more serious than a cold, dad.” He said. He was only able to keep his sarcastic tone for a second, before another cough erupted from his chest.

“Jesus!” FP hissed. “Jug, have you been smoking, son? What did I tell you-”

Jughead bit his lip. He _never_ understood. Since his mom and little sister had left, his father barely listened to him. But not right now. Jughead wanted so desperately for his father to listen, to _understand._ “Dad,” He said softly. He swallowed the overwhelming urge to say _daddy_. Like he was a little kid again. But that’s what he felt like. He felt like he was five years old again.

And all he wanted was his father. “I’m- I’m sick,” He forced out. “I think I’m- I think I’m dying,” When he was met to silence, he carried on. “There was this girl at school. Betty Cooper. She was- she was really sick,” Jughead stifled another sneeze. “I think- I think I’ve caught what she had.”

“What?” FP sounded speechless. Because what exactly was he supposed to say to that?  “Jug? Jug, listen to me. Are you okay? What’s going on? Jug, what’s happening?”

Jughead didn’t answer for a moment. Because that was it. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. And if he said he was rupturing from his mouth, his nose, his- he tenderly stuck his finger in his ear and felt the warm sensation of- _urgh._ He was bleeding from pretty much every hole.

His father’s voice, one who now knew just how bad the situation was, sounded progressively more worried. “Jughead, where are you?” FP coughed loudly. Though Jughead could bet his father wasn’t bringing up the lining of his lungs like him. Jughead scanned his surroundings, squinting in the early twilight. The orangeade glow from lampposts dotting the streets made him wince. His eyes stung.

“The N- North-side.” He managed to choke back. He recognized his street. He had memories of riding bikes down this very road, squealing in delight. Flying over the handlebars and badly skinning his knees. He knew exactly where he was.  “Near Archie’s house.” He whispered.

Jughead had thought for a second about going to Archie’s. It was just down the road, barely five minutes away. Archie Andrews had been his best friend. Until Freshman Year. When Archie had traded video games and long movie nights making fun of the very kids he ended up dumping Jughead for. The jocks. Jughead had to admit, yes, the varsity jacket looked pretty good on Archie. Though hell, he missed him. And if Jughead really _was_ dying. Then he didn’t want his last memory of the two of them being Archie staring in horror at him looking like he was auditioning for Saw. Besides. No matter how hard Jughead tried to forget, the boy had really fucking _hurt_ him.

Jughead didn’t need old best friends. He needed his dad. “Dad, can you just come and pick me up?” He whimpered. “Please. I- I’m bleeding, dad. I don’t-” He wiped his bloody nose, horrified at the amount of it covering his hands and the cuffs of his jacket. He broke then. Tears slid down his cheeks and he allowed himself to slowly shatter. “Dad.” He choked. “I really- I really need you.”

There was no reply for a second, and for one awful moment, Jughead thought his father had ended the call. But then there it was. FP Jones sounding, for the first time, worried and wary for his son’s safety. “Stay where are you, okay? I’m coming to get you, Jug.”

Jughead nodded. Even when he knew his dad couldn’t see it. He slipped his phone back into his pocket and clenched his scarlet hands into fists. It was all going to be okay. He was going to be fine. His dad was coming. Jughead coughed again. This time it made his stomach flip over, and he tasted rancid bile at the back of his throat. The force of the cough brought him to his knees. He didn’t get up. He could feel the fever igniting him inside, yet he still shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. _Oh god, dad. Please hurry._ Jughead managed to stumble out of the road and plonked himself on a bench. He pulled his hood up and bent his head down, praying the coughing and sneezing stopped. He didn’t know how much longer he had.

_Oh god, am I really going to die?_

Jughead didn’t know how long he had sat on the bench. His mind was an array of different emotions and thoughts. He hadn’t done everything he wanted to do. Write a book and get his film reviews professionally published. He really was going to die at sixteen years old. Like Betty. Was Betty really dead? The virus was surely killing him, so was she already gone? The beautiful flower girl in his class. The girl who always had a bright smile on her face. Jughead tried to cry. But he couldn’t. There were no tears. Just blood. Blood on his hands, blood on his cheeks. He was sure the tears he was trying to squeeze out were tainted scarlet. He tried so hard not to think about Betty Cooper. But the more he tried to push her into the back of his mind, repress her, the harder it got to _stop_ imagining her smiling at _him_. He didn’t know how long he sat there stuck in his thoughts waiting for his father. It was long enough for the sky to turn an inky black. There was no moon. No stars. When Jughead lifted his head and stared up. He realized he was blinking at oblivion.

 _Oblivion._ Was that where he was headed? Was death like the sky? Just endless darkness?

“Jughead Jones?” The man’s voice startled him. He weakly lifted his head, squinting through fraying eyelashes. There were two men standing over him. Dressed in all black with visors over their faces. Jughead felt panic spike in his chest. He frowned at the men, and wiped his running nose.

“Officers?” He sputtered out. _That’s what they were right? They were there to help him. Except how did they know his name? These men weren’t Riverdale deputies. Sheriff Keller was nowhere to be seen._

“Jughead Jones, you’re authorized to come with us.” One of them said. His voice was muffled by the visor.

Jughead narrowed his eyes slightly. “I- I don’t understand…” he whispered. “look, my dad...he’s coming to get me. I’m sick. I-“

“Mr Jones, coming with us is strictly mandatory. We are required to bring in children infected with the N7 virus.”

Jughead shook his head and shrank back. “My Dad is picking me up. You can - you can speak to him.” He got an awful feeling then. How exactly did the men know where he was?

_His father had contacted them._

He stood up, trembling. “I’m fine.” He said softly. “I don’t need your help.”

One of the men reached into his pocket and Jughead felt his heart start to race. But the man didn’t pull out a gun or a taser. Instead, he pulled out- a light-bulb. Jughead stared. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Mr Jones,” the man holding the light-bulb cleared his throat. _Very professional._ “To test if you are infected with N7, you are required to touch this bulb.”

Jughead blinked at the man. “You’re joking right?” He could feel blood trickling from his nose again and winced. He opened his mouth to start questioning if this was all some elaborate prank some idiots were playing on a sick kid. Except there was a yell from halfway down the street, and Jughead couldn’t help twisting around. _He knew that voice...  
_

There was someone being dragged down the sidewalk. As they got closer, Jughead realized it was a kid being apprehended by two guys also dressed in black. The kid had a gangly figure, dark red hair a scruffy mess on top of his head. _Archie._ The realization hit him. As they neared, Jughead noticed the redhead was in the same state as him. Archie’s skin was white. Pure white. The blood covering his nose, his lips, smeared around his face as if his skin was a canvas for a child’s finger painting. The colors contrasted perfectly. Archie Andrews may have looked like shit, what with his brown eyes dilated and leaking bloody tears. But something about him also looked kinda beautiful. Like Betty Cooper and her flower crown over her scraggly blonde hair, her bloody hands clenched into fists by her sides as she had ran out of the classroom that afternoon. Archie was yelling and kicking out at his assailants, his Blue and Gold Letterman jacket hanging off him, exposing a white shirt tainted scarlet. Except he was also stumbling, tripping over and falling backwards. Jughead knew Archie was clumsy. But not _that_ clumsy.If the bloodied face and feverish eyes weren't enough clues, the boy's movements said it all. Archie was infected too.

The men dragging Archie eventually ended up standing in front of Jughead, with the redhead unsteady in their arms. Archie was mumbling something through vicious sneezes that rocked his body. Jughead wanted to speak to his old best friend. But his throat was on fire. When he caught Archie’s eye, the boy’s eyes narrowed as a slow trickle of blood ran from his nose.

“Jug?!” He hissed, his eyes widening, the foggy expression wiping from his face. “You’re sick too?” He coughed.

Jughead didn’t reply. The man holding him chuckled. “Archie, do be quiet. Right, we just want you kids to do a simple thing,” he gestured to the man still holding the light bulb as if it held the answer to creation.

“Touch it.” He growled. Jughead shook his head. Maybe this was all a vivid hallucination. It made sense. Since as soon as Archie caught his eye once more, the redhead was grinning wildly. Though maybe that was the fever. “You..” Archie spluttered out another cough. “You want us to touch a bulb?” He made a sound which might have been a laugh and Jughead appreciated it.

“Indeed.” The man said. “As I told you earlier, Mr Andrews. When you touch it, you will either succumb to the virus, or you will adapt a PSI ability that we are looking for.”

 _Psi?_ Jughead thought feverishly.

“P.S.I?” Archie repeated, echoing his thoughts. “What the hell is that?”

The man ignored him. “Touch it, Mr Andrews. You are testing my patience.”

Archie didn’t exactly have a choice. Two men strictly held him, and the man who had been harassing Jughead, held out the bulb inches from Archie’s wide brown eyes.

Jughead found himself entranced as the redhead, after rolling his eyes and muttering that _this is so stupid!_ He lifted the point of his bloody index finger and pressed the tip against the glass bulb. Jughead wasn’t expecting anything to happen. After all, he and Archie were just two kids dying from a fucking virus. Though something _did_ happen. The bulb lit up suddenly, bright and pulsing in front of Archie’s eyes. It was the most beautiful light he had ever seen, and it lit up all their faces, Archie’s included. The boy’s face was suddenly breathtaking. The pale bright light washed over his skin, exposing every freckle dotting his nose.

Jughead noticed the glow from the light-bulb slowly illuminated Archie’s eyes, which were wide with amazement. It almost looked like his best friend’s eyes were alive with sparks. Electricity.  “How…” He found himself choking out. Word vomit in its best form. He couldn't help it.

Archie retracted his finger quickly, and the bulb went out, plunging them back into darkness. There was an uneasy silence, before one of the men spoke. His voice muffled from underneath his visor.

“Holy shit,” he murmured, losing his professional tone. “We’ve got another one.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is just the prologue to see if this interests anyone :D Leave kudos if you liked!


End file.
